Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 132097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 660(@200wpm)___ 528(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132097 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 660(@200wpm)___ 528(@250wpm)___ 440(@300wpm)
“No, I guess not.” She kisses Ares’ wrinkled forehead and I take the dress, hanging it up for her since she just got her hands dirty with the dog.
“You should go wash your hands,” I tell her.
She settles in beside him, flippantly rolling her eyes.
“Why? Not much point when I’ll just pet him again in five minutes. I’ll wash up when we get there. Before I change into the dress.” She eyes it cautiously, a spark of excitement and trepidation on her face. “I can’t believe we’re doing this.”
“Hauling around a dog who was on Noah’s Ark? Yeah.” I scowl at his wrinkly face. “No, I can’t either.”
“Not Ares, you dork. This, I mean.” She sweeps her arm around the space. “On a private plane. Going to New York to meet your parents.”
“An unfortunate necessity. And you’ve met them before.”
“Yeah, but not like this. Not for dinner.”
“Be glad it’s just dinner. You wouldn’t want to linger a second longer.”
Hattie looks at the dress again. “This thing is worth more than all my books put together.”
I spare it a second glance.
Margot has her faults, but she knows how to pick them. It’s a pink, floral halter neck made to show an enticing amount of skin.
“Are you complaining?” I ask.
No, I still haven’t forgotten the way she reacted when I bought her the fucking bookstore.
Overkill?
Perhaps.
But she needs to get it through her head that the sums of money we’re dealing with are negligible.
With Blackthorn Holdings, I could buy every library in Maine without noticing the change in my account.
So yeah, buying her the bookstore felt like the logical conclusion. It was getting in the way and I don’t have patience for endless interruptions.
Besides, she’s always wanted to live with the pages.
I just sped up her destiny, thank you very much.
But the way she responded—like I’d somehow gone behind her back or it was dirty money—made me feel like I overstepped my bounds.
Never my intention.
I’m a coldhearted brute sometimes, sure, but I never want to make her feel small, like she doesn’t deserve what she’s earned.
The trouble is, good things don’t come to people who deserve them.
That’s not how the world works. You have to bite and claw for every drop of blood, no matter what your name is or how many good cards you’re dealt in the first hand.
I’m not better than anyone else because I was born wealthy with a name that means something.
I simply got lucky, and after too many years of wasting my luck, I finally figured out what to do.
Unlike my parents, who decided early on that ‘lucky’ was the final destination.
They don’t have a fucking clue what to do with their money beyond their next exotic spa treatment or Mom’s next big social. As long as they get to live off Gramps’ generosity until the day they die.
Me buying Hattie the bookstore instead of letting her muddle through loan applications and investors doesn’t mean she hasn’t worked hard.
She throws me a cautious glance, chewing her lip.
“Not complaining,” she says eventually. “It’s just a lot. I really hope it’s up to their standards.”
I nod briskly.
“My parents are particular. I’d say their eye for appearances and luxury are all they’ve ever cared to develop.”
I don’t say more.
Part of me thinks I should give her a fair preview of the family dynamics, but where do I fucking begin?
Mom only cared what Gramps’ money could buy her next and then what miracles their travel agent could work on his dime.
You have to get real creative when your clients have soaked in several dozen sunsets on Lanai and woken up to coffee with wild elephants in Zambia before they were middle-aged.
If Gramps’ life revolved around building empires and making money, Mother’s exists to spend it. Which makes the strained relationship they had until the bitter end even more baffling when it was so symbiotic.
Still, if the old man didn’t die rich, I doubt my mother would’ve acknowledged his passing at all.
When she found out he turned his nose up at a funeral, her relief was palpable.
“They’ll see the designer label, and that’s enough.” I give the dress another long look. “Salvatore Fig?”
She gasps. “How did you know?”
“Spend enough time around crowds flaunting it and you know it on sight.” Not that I’ve ever cared for designer labels much, but it helps to have a sense of what wows potential future partners.
I make it my business to care about the details in life, and Margot’s too, though she’d laugh in my face if I told her.
The way Hattie looks at me now says she can see there’s something more under the surface, but I’m not about to feed her interest. Soon, she turns away and focuses on scratching Ares’ comically long ears.
By the time the jet taxis down the runway again, I open my laptop and try not to think about how damnably content they look together.